


doesn't end here

by Crimson_Voltaire



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Graves, Buried Alive, Drugging, Gen, Impersonation, Minor Descriptions of Police Brutality, Rescue Fic, Unethical Interrogation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 07:46:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13970520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crimson_Voltaire/pseuds/Crimson_Voltaire
Summary: "Maybe he's buried in a shallow grave..."Maybe it's not shallow. Maybe it's six feet deep and he has tonnes of earth bearing down and oh god he can't breathe - he can't breathe, he can't breathe, he can't breathe...Don't panic





	doesn't end here

**Author's Note:**

> Because I’m bitter about Graves not coming back in FB2 and salty af that they called it The Crimes of Grindelwald. Here, have some Graves being a BAMF and rescuing himself. 
> 
> Warnings for being buried alive and MACUSA’s less than stellar interrogation ethics. 
> 
> I wrote this in thirty minutes and no one else has proofed it, so apologies for run-on sentences, sentence fragments and typos. Con. crit welcome.

He wakes in darkness, void of light and sound, the world completely silent and still around him. He wakes in darkness, a heavy weight pressing down on his chest and his belly and his legs, pressing him deeper. His ribs groan, lungs protesting when he struggles to take in a breath and then regrets it. Dirt fills his mouth, wet and putrid, tasting like death and life and sweet in the way soil is after the rain.   
  
Dirt.   
  
If it’s dirt, he’s buried, alive and alone with tonnes of earth bearing down on his fragile, mortal body. It pushes harder, harder, moisture sinking into his clothes and seeping into his skin and his bones and just keeps advancing. His ribcage cries out now, throat on fire. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe – _don’t panic_.   
  
Don’t panic.   
  
He tries not to panic, acutely aware of his time running out and the limited supply of oxygen he has left. It’s a minute, if he’s lucky, seconds if he isn’t. Gathering his wits takes precious time and the anxiety spikes in his blood, makes it race and pulse and difficult to concentrate over the roar of his ears. Reaching out, he grasps at the thing filaments of magic, hiding in the keratin of his fingernails and the fibres of his shirt and tugs, tugs, tugs, pulling it kicking and screaming back into himself. Then, like an elastic pulled to breaking, it floods every cell in his body like molten gold, sending nerves shrieking back to life in a fiery prickle of agony. He grits his teeth, pushes past it, and the ache in his chest and the desperate pounding of his heart and focuses his mind on one task.   
  
Years and years of training and trail by fire, of childhood days being kicked up and down the courtyard and of his twenties, doing the kicking, come down to this moment, this second.   
  
_Confringo_.   
  
The band snaps again, whatever power stored in his body releasing in a rush of heat. The earth around him shudders, throbbing.   
  
_Confringo_.   
  
Dirt falls into his face again, shaken loose. _Confringo. Confringo. Confringo. **Confringo**_ **.**   
  
An almighty roar breaks past the rush in his ears. Silver-white light pierces his tomb, followed by spring-sweet air. He sits up, gasping and coughing and pushing soil out of battered vocal chords, chest heaving and tender. When he’s caught his breath, he doggedly hauls himself out of the hole to roll across dew-strewn grass.   
  
He lays there for a moment, beside his would-be grave. From between the gnarled and ancient oak trees which guard the sky he can just make out the constellations. Orion twinkles down at him merrily, belt shining brightly and bow raised to flight the arrow and make the kill. He doesn’t know why, but the thought of the hunter sends chills racing down his spine and mismatched eyes tearing through his brain.   
  
All he remembers before waking up is the curl of thin lips, bleach blond hair and those mis-matched eyes. All he can remember thinking is that he is too late to stop it.   
  
He swears again. The panic, fading back into his bloodstream now surges to life once more. Wobbling to his knees, he glances up one last time at Orion before closing his eyes and thinking of somewhere else entirely.

—

The wizard departs in a loud, crackling and swirling ball of light and fury. His body twists, contorts and vaporizes, disappearing into the abyss and leaving only silence in his wake. The forest remains, dark and quiet, the birds and beasts hushed as if still waiting for something to happen.   
  
Over the grave, unmarked and unburdened, the oak trees sway in the slight breeze, as if dancing to a victory no one knows of yet.

—

“Let’s try this again, then, shall we?” Johnson hisses, slipping the vile of vertasium back into his pocket. It’s off the books, officially, but Picquery watches from the corner of the cell, stony faced and still.   
  
“Where is Percival Graves?”  
  
It’s too soon for the potion kick in, still making its way down the traitor’s throat and into his belly, where it will burn and churn and leach into his bloodstream and force him to spill his guts entirely. And the madman knows it. He remains silent, impassive, those eerie eyes boring into Johnson’s very soul. It’s like looking into the eyes of an animal – something floats beneath those glassy surfaces but you can’t put your finger on it. It’s there, but not quite human.   
  
Johnson curls his lip. Anger floods in once again, white hot. Fear follows in its wake and his fingers tremble and his knees shake and a cold sweat breaks out across the back of his neck. He raises his hand, open palmed, and brings it across the man’s face. His head snaps to the side, moving with the fluidity of a rag doll, before centering once more. He says nothing. Johnson nearly screams. Lurching forward, he takes hold of the man’s stolen costume with both fists and shakes the man so hard that the anti-apparition chains biting into his flesh rattle.  
  
“Where the fuck is he? _Where is Percival Graves_?”  
  
Somewhere, floors above them, a woman screams. The man’s head turns at the same time the Aurors by the door swing to address something or someone. Johnson lets his focus drift for no more than a second before fixing in on the traitor once more. A smile creeps its way across that pudgy and pale face, showing off something that could have been a lovely smile once upon a time but now looks decidedly more unhinged.

The door bursts open, someone yelps, and the man says, “ _He’s right here_.”

Johnson spins on his heel, letting the traitor drop back into his chair. There, propping himself up against the doorway and smeared head-to-toe in peaty earth, is Percival Graves.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, let me know what you think!


End file.
